My brother Max told me about Bud Smith.
The writer, not the baseball player, the one who’d pitched a no-hitter in his rookie year for the St. Louis Cards.
For a brief time, I thought he was the baseball player, who’d pitched a no-hitter in his rookie year—on 9/3/01, eight days before fair Seth MacFarlane missed his plane at solemn Boston Logan—for the St. Louis Cards.
But he was not him.
Who else was he not?
Bud Smith was not Indiana Jones*.
He was not Jerry Springer, Bud Smith.
He was not Josh Hartnett, nor Josh Hartnett’s character, Captain Danny Walker, from the film Pearl Harbor, which my parents brought me to on Christmas Day at CityWalk, in Universal City, CA—not so long before this other Bud pitched his no-no.
(Do you think he saw Pearl Harbor in theaters, too? Bud Smith?)
Back in the present, I couldn’t stop thinking about Bud Smith.
The writer, Bud Smith.
The author.
Bud Smith.
Bud.
Smith.
I looked up and ordered his novel on Amazon dot com, the book Teenager by Bud Smith.
Bill Callahan—Smog himself!—had blurbed the book. He must have been thrilled about this, Bud Smith.
I began talking to him in my sleep, Bud Smith.
I asked him, Do you approve of me, Bud Smith?
Back in New York City, Bud Smith’s apartment began to quake/shake.
He stuck his head out the window and realized it was only his place quake/shaking, not the whole world, nor the city around him.
He looked up at the ceiling, and he saw me, and I said, Bud Smith?
Who’s asking? asked Bud Smith.
I’m Z.H., I told Bud Smith.
You’re a floating head, Z.H., said Bud Smith.
Amazon dot com said your book’s coming tomorrow, I let Bud Smith know, Your book Teenager?
Oh hey that’s nice to hear, Bud Smith replied.
I’m sure I’ll like it, I declared to Bud Smith.
Let me know if you do, Bud Smith said, Perhaps through more conventional means?
My brother Max says you’re the nicest dude, I told Bud Smith.
You know Max? He’s a lovely guy, said Bud Smith.
If you’re ever in LA, could we have a catch, maybe? I wondered aloud, though I couldn’t hide my jittery excitement from Bud Smith.
Catch? Can I think about it? requested Bud Smith.
You know, I’m not the baseball player Bud Smith, he added, That young buck who pitched that no-hitter days before—
I know, I acknowledged, Trust me, I know. And could you maybe send me a PDF of Work? It’s way out of print.
Sure, kid, decided Bud Smith, Why not?
I gave him my email, and then I said I’d check back in. Expect my floating head, Bud Smith, I said.
I’ll await it eagerly. Now if you don’t mind, I must get back to bed—and he turned to his side and fell asleep in an instant, Bud Smith.
(Bud.)
(Smith.)
I did the same.
__
[*Later on, Bud Smith will tweet about Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny being the 2nd best Indiana Jones movie.
This will be the only time I disagree with Bud Smith.
This will be, as far as I’m aware, the only time Bud Smith has ever been wrong.]